Chapter Seven
Elias hadn’t had anything more after that first pint, but he had remained for another hour so, unable to tear himself away from observing what must have been some sort of rehearsal for the dowager baroness’s imminent funeral.
He remembered their summer showcases very well, of course, though he had only ever attended two of them.
The first two.
Willa had called each of them ‘a gauntlet’ and ‘an opportunity,’ a yearly chance to show the world that talent trumps all.
There was nowhere else in the world like Brighton to do something so audacious.
Prince George had still been young then, but his fashionable exodus to the Brighton shores had already begun to catch, as well as the attractions under the grand pavilion and smaller stages dotted down the coast.
She would spend weeks bringing in experts, hiring propmakers, and rehearsing with her wards so that their showcase would outshine every other act put before the denizens of Brighton that summer.
The festivities were, without question, the highlight of the year, not just for Willa, but for every one of her wards, save Elias.
He imagined they had only grown in scale and grandeur during his years away at school.
He could close his eyes and see it now, under a shaded pavilion in the summer sun, the surf high and the smell of salt in the air while lanky, adolescent Rhys pulled scarves from his mouth and Malcolm performed unseemly feats of counting and calculation to applause.
Errol had always come with a grange display and a few of his pets to do tricks. It was never something so pedestrian as a dog. No, no. He would have a rabbit sitting and standing on command or a duck hopping through hoops. One very notable time, he’d trained a spider to answer commands.
Ruby, blindfolded, would identify scents and foods and combinations, already flirting with adults she couldn’t see from behind the blinders on her eyes.
He shook his head, running a hand over his own eyes as he lay in bed, back to the sun. He might have even enjoyed all of that, if he’d seen it as a guest, rather than as the only child in the house without an act.
“What’s my talent?” he had asked Willa once, hoping she might know the secret.
“You are a baron,” she had answered, shrugging.
Then, perhaps realizing how she’d sounded, she’d put a hand on his shoulder and turned him to face her, amending the statement with, “You are like me. People like us got the luck of birth, so we have to try a little harder elsewhere. It is how the universe keeps balance.”
He sighed.
Maybe she’d been right.
He could hear Hattie’s boot stomping on that bench tonight as the pub-goers cheered for her nonsense insults in half a dozen languages.
God, she’d been magnificent up there. And it had been nothing at all to her. Just a funny skill she had, a thing she could do without much trying.
Insufferable.
He’d never been quite so irritated by someone before, and he’d met plenty of unbearable people at school. And in the military.
Plenty and more.
A flash of her collapsing back on that bench, her skirts flouncing up around her like an exploded dandelion, played behind his eyes, her brassy hair tickling her cheeks. It sent a spear of heat into his belly that was just as unwelcome as everything else about her.
Insufferable, he thought again. Perfectly irritating.
Glorious.
Something about her had always just been … glorious.
He wondered how many languages she spoke now.
He wondered how many foreign men had discovered her brilliance in all the strange and distant lands and royal courts she’d visited.
There again, a spear of heat, though this one burned a little differently.
He grimaced and opened his eyes, his gaze settling on that damned gold ring on his bedside table.
The ring that thought this was his fault.
The ring made him think about logistics.
About banns and registrations and selling or at least getting a hold put on his commission with the cavalry.
It kept his mind spinning for long enough to begin to lull him into something resembling rest, until mercifully, he blinked and the sun had made its way fairly high into the afternoon sky.
There was next to no staff in this house, after it having been closed for so long, with only a few servants who’d made a life of this place lingering to keep it from crumbling to dust. He’d left his cavalry valet back in Hounslow, not realizing how long he would be stuck in Brighton.
As such, Elias saw to his own toilette and change of clothes, shaving himself clean and ensuring that he was crisp and alert to face this new day.
He was going to need to have some unpleasant conversations, both with the barrister and with his bride-to-be. He reasoned that he may as well feel presentable while he did it.
If he expected everyone else to meet him in kind, he was sorely mistaken.
Those who were awake at this late hour were either slumped in the dining room, picking at an assortment of cold meats and cheeses that had been laid out in lieu of luncheon, or wandering the halls in their dressing gowns, complaining about the brightness of the sunlight.
He realized, in quick order, that he had left far, far earlier than he realized, given the scope of the night that had apparently transpired.
Good. It would be nice to have an advantage for a change.
In fact, he used to fantasize about exactly this sort of thing.
He’d lie in bed at Eton and imagine coming back to Starling’s Rest as an accomplished, impressive, impervious adult and stunning them all into slack-jawed silence.
A childish fantasy, but perhaps still one hiding somewhere in his ribs, regardless.
At the very least, that bent of childishness had kept his marks high and his aspirations focused. It had pushed him to shed his baby fat, hone his mind, and seek commendation. There was something to be said for that, at least.
He’d excelled at almost everything he’d attempted from the first day he’d arrived at Eton.
He’d made friends. He’d won fencing competitions.
He’d learned to ride for both practicality and performance.
For the first time, he had been able to swell with pride at a professor’s accolade without suspecting it had been a consolation in the shadow of true genius.
And he had gotten many such accolades.
Many.
It was worth remembering, even if he never told the others about it. It was worth reminding himself that one did not have to be a prodigy to be a success.
And in any event, he was the only one of them smart enough to have gotten through to this morning without the pain of liquid regret.
He strode into the kitchen, feeling brisk and superior, and smiled brightly at the assembled wilted flowers. “Morning, all,” he sang, reaching for a strip of bacon. “Is Mr. Harcourt about? Or Harriet?”
Bleary eyed, Rhys glanced up at him from his position near the bread basket and shook his head, standing up as though his stomach had just turned. “Well,” he said, palming the side of his head where all his brown curls were completely flattened against his scalp, “aren’t you fresh?”
And then he strode out, murmuring to himself.
“That means ‘passing wind in a jar,’” Monica put in helpfully. “We learned it last night.”
“Charming,” said Elias, rounding the table to choose something from the bread basket. He had his hand outstretched toward one of the butter rolls on top before he noticed something odd about the one at the top of the tower, freezing mid-grab.
It had two golden eyes, shaped suspiciously like rectangular cufflinks, and a jagged smile made of plum preserves.
He blinked at it for a moment, uncertain if he was astounded or amused.
Malcolm Lennox, whose head had been nested in the crook of his elbow, muttered something against the table, then, realizing his voice was not traveling through the wood, sighed and looked up. “Parlor,” he said, his voice dry and crackly. “God, I used to be better at this.”
“Parlor,” Elias repeated, taking up the bun with a face and tossing it in Malcolm’s direction. “I think this is yours.”
Mal caught it on reflex, surprise registering on his face as Elias turned and strode out of the dining room, grinning to himself as he tore one of the other, unmolested buns in half and popped a piece of fresh bread in his mouth.
A few moments later, there was a booming cry of, “Rhys!”
Followed by an impish giggle somewhere in the halls.
Elias allowed himself a light chuckle, rounding down the hall toward the front of the house and passing by Errol, who was fully dressed, and Ruby, who was in a sagging, velvet dressing gown with a steaming cup of tea in her hands.
“Three weeks just isn’t enough time to grow anything worthy of a grange,” he was saying to her as she yawned behind her hand. He glanced up at Elias, nodding in greeting, just as a series of raps sounded on the door behind them.
“Oh, you were right,” Ruby said absently. “Someone is at the door.”
“I’ll get it,” Elias offered, stepping around them.
It gave him an opportunity to pass near to the parlor without going in, lest there be something worth overhearing.
Sadly, the only voice he heard was Libba Lennox’s, ranting about housing accommodations for a dozen people she apparently had plans to ship in from London for the funeral.
“Lem can stay in the house, but the rest of them will make off with the crockery,” she announced.
Elias sighed and turned toward the door, where another series of crisp raps sounded. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” he muttered under his breath, grabbing the knob and swinging the damned thing open.
On the stoop was the bright-faced, ginger-haired visage of Jasper Townsend, Malcolm’s best mate and lifelong fixture of Starling’s Rest, even during Elias’s short tenure here. He looked just as fresh and chipper as Elias himself felt, turned out in a crisp, gray day suit.
“Ah,” Jasper said, blinking in surprise. “Well, sink me. Lord Selwyn? You answering your own door?”